


Many a Winding Turn

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Clint and Phil White Collar AU [4]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), White Collar
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Clint Needs a Hug, Con Artists, FBI Agent Phil Coulson, First Kiss, M/M, Minor Character Death, con man Clint, fourth in a series, white collar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9302495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: When John Garrett, Phil's old partner, shows up, it's like the first pebbles of an avalanche.  Clint calls on an old friend for information, Phil gets the information he's been searching for on Obadiah Stane, and another familiar face throws a monkey wrench into Clint's life.  They find themselves in the cross hairs of some very bad people and decisions are made that change everything.This is the fourth of six in the White Collar AU series.  You don't need to have watched White Collar to understand the story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We're on the fourth of a six story arc. The story so far: Clint Barton, famous con man and art thief, was given the opportunity to get out of prison early, but only if he worked with Phil Coulson, the FBI agent who put him there in the first place. After moving into an apartment in Tony Stark's mansion, Clint helped solve the case of the missing amber and crossed paths with Obadiah Stane. Then they took on corporate espionage at Johtun Industries; Phil dealt with Interpol agent Thor Odinson while Clint handled the return of Loki Laufeyson, an art thief Clint had worked with before. A shady money laundering scheme led to Clint going undercover at a strip club and his friend Natasha Romanova flirting with Bucky Barnes, an insurance adjuster. Hot on the trail of Stane's illegal activites, the boys get visits from two faces from their past in this installment.

“Got a new job,” Grant Ward said, strolling into the back room of the garage. He tossed a folder down on the table; Brock reached for it first, flipping through the pages inside. “Three targets, none of them easy. I’ve got the thief; Brock, you want …” 

 

“I know this guy. Thinks he’s tough. I’ll take him.” Brock slid a piece of paper out  and passed the file to Jack. “You get the handsome one.” 

 

“Thanks,” the man replied. “I get stuck with babysitting the newbie and the crappiest assignment?  This is because of that latte in Berlin, isn’t it? Damn it, how was I to know the barista was her cousin?” 

 

“Keep your pants zipped and we’ll all be better off,” Ward told him. “Boss wants these done quiet and simple. Make ‘em look natural and spread them out. It’ll take time to run my mark to ground, so we’ll start with Brock’s. Do your homework, get in and get out. Then we get paid.” 

 

There was grumbling but they knew when to ask questions and when to shut up.  With little discussion, they left to pursue their own agendas; only then did the man hiding in the rafters swing down, making his way into the office to peruse Ward’s copy of the original documents. Kill orders, just as his employer expected; the man was paying damn good money just for three names. 

 

Snapping pictures with his cellphone, he started with the one on top. 

 

James Buchanan Barnes, insurance investigator. Ex- military. A real hitter when it came to catching thieves. Yeah, he knew this guy and pretty much stayed out of his way. 

 

The second made him catch his breath. Natasha Romanova, aka Natalie Rushman, aka Natalia Romanoff, aka Black Widow.  Best cat burgerler in the business, neigh on impossible to find, much less kill. And best friend of …

 

He sighed at the third picture. Clint Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye. Current location: New York City. Con man and grifter. Known associate of Anthony Stark. 

 

“Damn it, Clint,” Barney Barton said. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

 

* * *

 

“It’s a forgery,” Clint was saying, perched on the edge of Phil’s desk and leaning over, weight supported on one hand as he pointed with the other. “See the perfect distribution of color?  The Italian government used a gradient in their bills; there would be slight changes in the border. Very subtle, but there. Gives it a three dimensional look when you hold it up to the sun.” 

 

“So the whole haul of treasure is fake? One big scam?” Phil shook his head as he thumbed through the photographs. Paintings, sculptures, golden candelabras … crates and boxes half-opened littered the small room. 

 

“Not necessarily.” Clint picked up the bill, flipped it over in his hands, brought to his nose and sniffed. “During the war, there was an ink shortage and a couple runs of twenty lira notes were made with a different kind.” Leaning over further, he grabbed Phil’s bottle of water and shook a couple drops of condensation onto the paper. Rubbing gently, he pulled  a lighter from his pocket and flicked the switch; holding the bill just above the flame, he watched as the ink shifted from blue to green. “This is one of those.  Good thing it wasn’t exposed to water; they’d all be faded away by now. Each one is worth probably close to $20,000.”

 

“Imagine.” Phil ran a fingertip across another one. “Locked in a Uboat for over 40 years at the bottom of the sea. I’ll have the rest checked and verified. Boyd Shotwell is going to be famous for the find.” 

 

“That looks like a Monet …” 

 

“Hey, Philly Cheesesteak!” A man in a blue pinstripe suit, standard FBI wear, leaned against the jamb. A wide smile glowed on his face. “Got everyone’s tongues wagging down in D.C. with all these cases you’re solving. Gordo just about shit his pants when you arrested that Food Network Star for embezzlement.” 

 

“John? What are you doing in town? Last I heard, you were headed for the field office in San Diego.” Phil stood and walked over, holding out a hand; the man shook his head and grabbed Phil instead, dragging him into a hug that lasted just a few seconds too long. 

 

“I’m here on a case, thought I’d see if you could loan me some of your mojo to solve it.” John kept one arm loosely around Phil’s waist until Phil stepped away, tugging his suit jacket back into place. “Always did like sharing, didn’t we Phil?” 

 

One thing Clint knew was how to read people, a necessary skill in his profession. Tiny tells, minute expression, Clint could read this guy like a book and he didn’t like what he saw. Fingers lingering on Phil’s sleeve, laying a claim to him. Smile a bit too wide, eyes focused on Clint as soon as Phil turned his back. His shirt sleeves were a touch too long, suit not tailored right, a small stain on his tie. Yeah, Clint knew this guy’s type; best to take the offense. 

 

“Phil’s very good at sharing.” Clint didn’t offer his hand, staying where he was, hip against Phil’s desk. “It’s what makes him a great agent.”

 

“John Garrett, Special Agent, Phil’s exe.” Eyes narrowed; John took in every inch of Clint who looked especially dapper today in his grey flannel double-breasted suit with a purple silk tie and bamboo mowbry pork pie hat.with the matching feather. “You must be Barton, Phil’s new pet. Why don’t you run get me a coffee while Phil and I catch up.”

 

“John,” Phil said in the same voice he used when he was disappointed in Clint. “Play nice. Clint’s a member of the team.” 

 

“Your team, not mine.” John sauntered over to the window. “You may trust him, Phil, but I don’t. I haven’t forgotten he’s a criminal.”

 

“It’s called rehabilitation, John. We’ve had this argument before; let’s not get into it again.” An edge crept into Phil’s voice, his eyes flashing at the other agent. The slightest blush stained Phil’s cheeks, and Clint put the pieces together. Something had happened between them, and he was willing to bet Garrett had been the instigator. “Now, tell me what help you need. I’m always glad to lend a hand.” 

 

The look Garrett shot Clint was brimming with dislike; Clint stayed where he was, forcing Garrett to go around him to get to a chair, putting him at a lower height than Clint. Pulling a folder out of his briefcase, he laid it open on Phil’s desk, covering the bills they’d been looking at. 

 

“I’ve been on the trail of human traffickers working out of the port in San Diego; it’s part of an investigation into a Chinese group who call themselves The Hand. Drugs, slaves … these guys are into all sorts of dirty dealings.” He shuffled a picture to the top; the man was older, in his sixties at least, the image grainy and out-of-focus. “I’m following this guy; he’s of special interest to The Hand for some reason. They call him Stick.” 

 

“Probably because of the bo staff,” Phil said, pointing to the walking stick the man was leaning on. “The Hand has any number of enemies; this guy could be working for another player in the city.” 

 

“Could be a member of the Chaste,” Clint suggested. “Those two have been at war for decades.” 

 

Garrett ignored Clint’s input. “This Stick character is staying at a hostel in Hell’s Kitchen;  thought you might have a couple of agents to help with surveillance. See where he goes, who he meets.” 

 

“I’ll see what we can do.” Phil glanced at Clint. “You got any connections we can tug?” 

 

“I don’t need a con’s help,” Garrett sneered. “Phil and I have always done just fine.” 

 

Phil’s face grew red and he sputtered; before he could launch a defense, Clint interrupted. “Hey, fine by me. I’ve still got paperwork to do from the Storm case. I could use the time.” 

 

He winked at Phil, gathered up his hat and strolled past Garrett, giving the man a jaunty little nod. Steve and Maria pretended to look busy as he passed, heads down; they had to know Garrett and his past with Phil. 

 

He slid behind his desk and got out his phone, tossing his hat on top of his inbox. Sending a quick text, he booted up his computer and started working on the report. His peripheral awareness sent tingles down his neck; Garrett kept an eye on him through the glass wall of Phil’s office. Whatever the agent might say, part of the reason he was here was Clint.  So Clint kept his head down and focused on his screen, ignoring Phil’s office completely.

 

“Steve?” Phil stepped out of his office and called. “Got a second?” 

 

As Steve jogged up the stairs, Garrett sauntered down, strolling over to Maria’s desk. 

 

“How’s it hanging, Hill? Still content to follow in Phil’s footsteps?” Garrett didn’t bother to disguise his sarcasm. He leaned a hip against the metal edge and braced himself on his hands. “Heard you turned down the promotion to Chicago office.”

 

Of Maria’s stern looks, and Clint had catalogued forty-seven of them, the one she turned on Garrett was pure, unadulterated loathing. Not the disapproval she’d shown Clint when he’d first started working with the unit, or the exasperated eye roll that was her go-to favorite lately.  Maria hated Garrett and didn’t care if he knew. 

 

“Go away.” She glared at him. “And whatever trouble you’re stirring up, just know I’m watching and I will hurt you.” 

 

“Brrrrr. Still Major Iceborg, I see.” Garrett pushed away. “No wonder you …”

 

“You’re going to want to stop right there.” Maria said, cutting him off, “if you don’t want a few teeth knocked out and a sexual harassment complaint.”

 

“Whatever.” Garrett shrugged, turning his attention to Clint.  “So, Barton, what’s the scam? Using cases to pick your marks? Is Tony Stark the big play?” 

 

“I like sunshine and a good cup of coffee enough to actually do the job Phil got me out of prison for.” Clint finished the sentence he was typing before he looked up.  Garrett loomed above him, intentionally putting himself at an advantage. Kicking his feet out, Clint leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck, body a long line from head to toe, practically exposing his belly. “Jail or helping the FBI? Not really a choice there.” 

 

“You ever think of the irony of your situation?”  Garrett shifted, half-sitting on one hip; he picked up Clint’s hat and spun it in his hand. “Phil put you in jail, and Phil got you out. Says something, don’t you think?” 

 

“That Phil’s a lot better at letting bygones be bygones?” Clint chuckled, every so slightly swinging his chair back and forth. “He caught me fair and square; I can respect that.” 

 

“Oh, you’re good.” Garrett shared a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, dropping the hat back on the papers.. “You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you?” 

 

“Phil gave me a second chance.” Clint didn’t tense up, kept his relaxed pose. “I’d hate to see anyone mess with him.” 

 

“I’m going to have to keep my eye on you.” As Phil emerged from his office, Garrett stood and took a step back. “I imagine Phil does the same, keeps you on a tight rein.” 

 

“Monitoring anklet.” Clint pulled up his pants leg to show the device. “The Bureau knows where I am at all time.” 

 

Blue eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring, then they brightened back to the good old boy Garrett was pretending to be. “Well, Phil, your boy here is actually doing paperwork,” he said as Phil came to a stop. “Had to see it with my own eyes.” 

 

“He’s better at getting his reports in than you were,” Phil replied, his quick glance taking in Clint and Maria both. “You ready to roll? Steve’s going to take care of hotels and bars so we can focus on your lead.” 

 

“Sorry about the pavement pounding, Rogers.” Garrett didn’t punch Steve in the shoulder, but he did thicken his accent. “But it’s character building, right?’ 

 

“Not a problem.” Steve’s jawline strengthened, cheekbones more prominent. “I’ve got it covered.”

 

“Shall we than?” Phil moved around the other man, holding open the door to the elevator lobby. “We can take your car and I’m driving.” 

 

Through the glass, Clint watched them, Garrett leaning towards Phil, hands moving as he spoke. Phil stood with hands at his side, nodding occasionally, eyes trained on the little black square as it counted out floors. Then they were gone, doors closing behind them on their way down to the garage. 

 

“I …” Steve opened his mouth, but Maria stopped him with a wave of her hand, a signal for silence. Running a hand under the edge of her desk, she came up with a bug, a small black digital microphone. She nodded to Clint; catching the brim of his hat, he found a microdot inside, a listening device that wasn’t standard FBI issue.

 

Maria held out her hand; Clint gave it over. Closing her fist around them, Maria spoke directly to Garrett. “Old dog, John. You need to learn new tricks.” She dropped the bugs into her coffee cup. “That’s how the bastard got his promotion; man brags to whoever will listen after half a bottle of Jack.” 

 

“Phil know?” Steve asked. 

 

“I didn’t see the point in telling him and I didn’t have any proof.” Maria shrugged. “But damned if I’m going to let him waltz in here and pull that shit again. Watch you back, Steve, and Barton … yeah, you can handle him. Do your worst, and watch out for Phil.” 

 

“Pretty sure Phil’s onto him.” Steve grabbed his jacket off his chair. “He wants me to help Clint follow up on his contacts and keep it quiet.” 

 

“Phil knows John, but he doesn’t see just how deep the rot goes.” Maria picked up her cup and headed for the coffee pot. “I’ll check Phil’s office; Garrett knows you two are going out. Be careful.” 

 

* * *

 

“That coffee shop with the maple bacon donuts still around.” Garrett stretched his legs and laid an arm across the back of the front seat. “I’ve missed those.” 

 

“Health Department closed it down last year.” Phil turned the corner and started looking for parking. “And that burger joint you liked so much went out of business, but Chang’s is still open.” 

 

“We should get takeout for dinner. On me,” Garrett grinned as Phil cut off a mini-van to grab a parallel spot just a few doors down from where they were headed. “Still the best driver I know.” 

 

“You’re full of shit.” Phil didn’t know what John was up to, but he was laying it on way too thick. “Let’s go see this informant of yours.” 

 

“Come on, man.” Garrett caught up with him as Phil pushed the door to the gym open. “Been a long time; sue me for enjoying getting the gang back together.” 

 

Phil took the stairs up two flights. “Worked with you for seven years, John. I know when you’re buttering me up before the bad news. Just spit it out; I’m not walking in the gym until you spill whatever you’re hiding.” 

 

“Aw, now, Phil, you take all the fun out of it.” John paused on the landing. “I wanted to see your face when you recognized her.” 

 

Crossing his arms, Phil waited. Arguing would only draw out Garrett’s confession. Silence was the best weapon against John’s antics. 

 

“Fine. The gym owner’s an old friend of yours; after she quit the bureau, she wound up here.” Garrett grinned. 

 

“Melinda?” PHil rocked back on his heels; he’d thought she was out west, she and her husband settled in the L.A. area. “She’s in town?” 

 

“And she didn’t tell you.” Continuing up the stairs, Garrett got to the double doors; Fogwell’s Gym was printed in red letters, black edging faded and chips missing. “You should ask her why.”

 

The room inside smelled of sweat and oil, leather and cigar smoke.  A sparring ring dominated the space,  punching bags hanging on one side. Posters covered the walls, matchups from old fights and ones to come. In the far corner, red mats spread across the floor; in the middle stood a petite woman, her plait of dark hair swinging as she demonstrated a punch for the young men standing along the edge. 

 

Eyes tracked their movement as they made their way across the space, their suits making them stand out among the shorts and t-shirts. She knew the minute they walked in but kept talking even as the boys glanced curiously over their shoulders. “... to shift your weight onto the balls of your feet instead of sitting back on your heel. Isn’t that right, Phil?” 

 

“Balance is half the battle; can’t get as many hits when you’re laid out on the ground.” Phil didn’t know what they were learning, but he knew Melinda. At least, he used to. 

 

“Exactly. Phil, come help me demonstrate.” As always, Melinda’s suggestions brooked no argument. “Okay, gang, Phil’s going to be the attacker. Remember, shins and forearms are protection, elbow is a mace, the hands sword and dagger.”

 

Shrugging out of his jacket, Phil loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. The suit wasn’t ideal, but Mel was going to hand him his ass no matter what he had on. He hoped she let him get a a couple hits in before she took him down. Toeing out of his shoes, he stepped onto the mat.  Up close, Phil could read the histories in the class, the pinched faces of those who knew hunger and fear. Wiry guys, the kind who’d be perfect targets for bullies, they pretended to be disinterested but didn’t miss a single word Melinda said. 

 

“Now, watch and learn,” she said. 

Phil shifted his weight to the left then reached to the right; at the last second, he turned to the side, avoiding Melinda’s elbow swing. He knocked her off-balance with a kick to the knee, blocked a strike with his forearm, and punched back with his open palm. Moving to the left -- Phil knew he favored his right side -- he got a hand around her braid and yanked. She rolled with it and came up with a punch that caught Phil in the gut followed quickly by another that knocked him on his ass. 

 

“Okay, tell me what you learned.” Melinda looked over the students. “Ralph?”

 

“He got a hit in because he went left?” No more than fourteen, the boy was lost inside an oversized Nets t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. 

 

“Very good. He predicted my actions. Study. Know your opponent.” Melinda glanced up at the clock. “That’s it for the day.  Do your stretches and practice before Tuesday.” 

 

The students headed to the locker room and Melinda raised that one eyebrow at Phil. “You’re getting slow in your old age.”

 

“Nice to see you too,” he replied. Whatever her reason for being in town without telling him, Melinda would share in her own good time … or not if she didn’t want to.  

 

“Mel!” Garrett went to slap her on the shoulder; she sidestepped him. 

 

“You don’t know the meaning of the word subtle, do you?” She took off her gloves and tossed them on a bench. “Fine. Give me five, and you’re buying me a latte.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint sees a familiar face. Garrett's a dick. Matt Murdock's more than he seems. And the question of the day is to call or not to call.

They found a parking spot on the street; Steve whipped the standard issue sedan across traffic, beating a mom in an old model Chrysler mini-van to the curb. She flipped them off and kept going, running the red light to turn at the next corner.  Climbing out of passenger side, Clint caught a movement from the corner of his eye; through the window of noodle shop, he saw a purple hoodie turn away, stepping into the shadows. For a second, he broke stride but he was too used to living under scrutiny to let an impossibility throw him off. 

 

“Where to?” Steve asked, following him into the foyer of an older brick building.  Faded green paint covered the walls, the black and white subway tile floors lined with cracks along the edges. 

In the black felt board hung at eye level, names of tenants were spelled out in crooked white letters, some missing, others upside down. 

 

“Upstairs.” Clint pushed open the heavy metal door and took the steps two at a time. “Matt’s office is on the second floor.” 

 

The glass panel proclaimed the space for Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law.  Inside was a small waiting room with a mix of chairs, a rickety end table and a floor lamp that cast a dull glow towards the ceiling.  An older Asian woman sat knitting, grey hair tucked into a tight bun; beside her, a little boy swung his legs, sucking on the jawbreaker in his cheek.

 

“Can I help … Aaron! It is you, isn’t?”  A lean and leggy redhead came out from behind the receptionist’s desk and gave Clint a big hug. “What’s it been? Five? Six years?”

 

“About five and a half.” Clint gave her a warm smile; Karen still smelled like lilacs and summer rain. “Karen, this is my friend Steve Rogers. Steve, Karen Page, the true legal mind behind this firm.” 

 

“Stop it.” Karen’s cheeks blossomed red; she extended her hand to Steve. “Nice to meet you. Any friend of Aaron’s is welcome.”  She motioned to the small kitchenette. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Bottle of Water?” 

 

“A cup of coffee would be great,” Steve replied. “Black’s fine.” 

 

She walked to the pot and poured “I’d ask what brings you around, but I’m sure you’re here to see Matt. Aaron’s a trouble magnet, in case you didn’t know.” 

 

“Oh, I’m aware.” Steve accepted the styrofoam cup, grinning at Clint over the edge of it as he took a sip.

 

The door to one of the inner offices opened, and a man and woman came out. She’d been crying, a tissue in one hand and her purse in the other. He had an arm around her, hugging her tight to his side.     
  


“How can we ever thank you?” the man asked.  

 

“Keep doing what you’re doing; the neighborhood needs more people like you.”  The lawyer was trim, his inexpensive suit neatly pressed and a pair of dark glasses over his eyes. Clint felt Steve start and knew when the Fed realized Matt Murdock was blind.  

 

“Thank you.” The woman pressed a kiss onto Matt’s cheek. “You’re a good boy.” 

 

Karen corralled the couple. “Let’s get the paperwork started, Mr. and  Mrs. Chou. Matt, you’ve got a visitor.” 

 

The little boy jumped up and ran to Mr. Chou who swung him up in his arms. The older woman began to pack up her yarn. Matt tilted his head in that way that meant he was listening then a wide grin split his face. 

 

“Aaron Cross, you old devil. Been a long time.”  He held out a hand; Clint took it and pulled Matt in for hug. 

 

“Too long,” Clint replied. “And I’m afraid I’m here to ask a favor, if you’ve got a minute?” 

 

“Introduce your friend first.” Matt bumped Clint’s shoulder. “Remember your manners.” 

 

“How did you …” Steve started to ask. 

 

“The floorboards squeak where you’re standing plus Aaron never drinks our coffee black.” Matt held out his hand. “I’m Matt Murdock.”  

 

“Steve Rogers.”  As they shook, Steve squeezed back when Matt did. 

 

“Come on in.” Matt stepped out of the way and let them in his postage sized office. “That was my last appointment of the day; I can spare a few minutes before I have to get ready for a custody hearing at four.” 

 

He shut the door, felt his way around his battered metal desk and sat. Clint took the wooden chair closest to the window and Steve settled into the one that wobbled. 

 

“So what’s up?  Is this a government thing?” Matt tapped his fingers on a stack of files. “What brings a Federal agent and Aaron Cross to my office?” 

 

“It’s okay,” Clint told him, enjoying Steve’s surprise.  Matt did that to people. “Steve knows who I am. He works for the white collar division under Coulson.” 

 

“Ah, so the rumor was true? Coulson got you out of prison?” Matt asked. 

 

“Switched to the white hats,” Clint said. “Turns out, catching bad guys is kind of fun. Who’d have thought?” 

 

Matt cleared his throat. “Indeed. And you need information about Hell’s Kitchen, which is why you’re here.” 

 

“Top of his law class,” Clint told Steve. “Yeah, a Fed out of D.C. is sniffing around, asking questions about a guy called Stick and the Hand.” 

 

Matt sat back in his chair with a long sigh, hands dropping to the top of his thighs. “Leave it to you to be right in the middle of things. The Hand’s all anyone is talking about; they’re muscling into every dark shadow around here … prostitution, drugs, money laundering, protection … and making a lot of enemies. Chinese syndicate, highly organized, very quick to act.  Word is they’re based somewhere near the old Koto Tuna factory by the wharf, but none of those who’ve gone looking for them have come back.” 

 

“We’ve got intel this Stick character is into human trafficking.” Clint watched Matt’s face carefully and caught the slightest tightening at the corner of his mouth. “You know where we could find him.” 

 

“Sorry, never heard of him.” Matt was good at lying, but not perfect. He knew more than he was telling. “But anyone on the Hand’s bad side doesn’t stick around long.”

 

“Not unless he has help.” Steve was good at his job; he’d picked up on Matt’s tells. 

 

“You said an agent from DC was looking for him. Mind telling me which one?” Matt ignored Steve’s jab and addressed Clint. 

 

“John Garrett.” 

 

“Fuck.” Matt bit his lip, though for a second, then spoke again. “Don’t trust Garrett, Clint. I’m serious. I can’t prove anything but I’m sure he’s dirty.  Been nosing around, looking for something for almost a year now. Question anything he’s told you.” 

 

Clint exchanged a quick look with Steve. “Yeah, I got that already.”

 

“Look, I’ll ask around. There’s this P.I. on the fourth floor; she’s got her ear to the ground.”  Matt picked up a business card and handed it to Steve. “If something’s going down in the neighborhood, we need to know. Tell people to be careful.” 

 

“Thanks.” Clint stood and clasped Matt’s outstretched hand; Steve passed over his own card. “Good to see you, man.” 

 

“Foggy will be sorry he missed you,” Matt said as they headed to the door. 

 

“No he won’t.” Clint laughed. “He says I drag you into trouble that he has to get us out of.”

 

“Well, there’s some truth in that,” Matt admitted. 

 

“I wouldn’t mind a little excitement,” Karen said. “Been pretty quiet lately.” 

 

“Careful what you wish for,” Clint told her. 

 

They said their goodbyes and headed down the stairs.  

 

“You hungry? I’m hungry.” Clint walked out onto the sidewalk and turned left. “Noodles?” 

 

The Chinese man behind the counter barely moved when Clint stepped up to the counter.  Clint ordered hot dry noodles to go; Steve, always willing to eat, picked chasu ramen. As they waited, Steve stepped outside to call Maria and Clint wandered over to the bulletin board on the wall, not sure if he wanted to find what he was looking for or not.  But there it was, a poster for a missing dog, the picture of a mixed breed with brown eyes. Snagging one of the strips at the bottom, he pocketed the phone number in a smooth motion.  

 

“I know someone out of the Midtown North.” Steve took his cup of noodles from Clint. “When we get back to the office, I’ll give him a call, trace down that lead on the wharf.” 

 

“Sounds like a plan,” Clint said, climbing into the car and buckling up.  His stomach rumbled as they pulled away from the curb. Damn if he wasn’t hungry after all. 

* * *

 

“Look, last thing Hell’s Kitchen need is you bumbling about, calling attention to yourself,” Melinda said, leaning over the small table and talking directly to Garrett.  “If you’re looking for a big case to break, go back to D.C. and investigate graff.” 

 

Phil sighed, sat back in his chair and sipped on his coffee, the simple black diner kind that he loved. This conversation had gone from bad to worse in record time.  John had started needling Melinda on the short walk from the gym, asking about her husband, separation and self-imposed exile. Once they sat down, John had taken control, not bothering to hide his feelings about the people Melinda was trying to help. It was like he was trying to push her into a confrontation.

 

“Breaking big cases is our boy Phil’s cup of Joe.” Garrett winked at Phil. “I want to get a bad man off the streets. If you can’t help us … or won’t … then we’re out of here.” 

 

Melinda’s face went blank; she sat ramrod straight, her coffee all but forgotten. “Don’t let me keep you.” 

 

John pushed back and stood, dropping a five dollar bill on the table. “Phil?” 

 

“I’m going to finish this.” He held up his cup. “I’ll find my own way back.” 

 

“Just like old times,” John sneered. “Never get tired of playing good cop, do you?” 

 

After he stormed off, Phil took out his phone and sent a quick text to Maria. 

 

“Well, he certainly hasn’t mellowed at all.” Melinda picked up her cup. “Still a jackass.” 

 

“Garrett’s … yeah, he’s a dick.” Phil sighed. “He’s not wrong about catching this human trafficker though.” 

 

“And he came to you and white collar instead of special victims?” Melinda arched an eyebrow. “The Phil I knew was too smart to fall for John’s bullshit.” 

 

“Yeah, well, the Phil you knew thought you’d retired to California.”  Phil quit skirting around the issue. 

 

She shrugged, but Phil could still read her tiny ticks of emotion. “Too sunny; I missed the snow.”

 

Whatever the reason, she wasn’t going to talk about it. “There’s plenty of that here,” he agreed, letting the topic go. 

 

“Listen,  everyone around here’s heard the rumors about the Hand, but most of them are just stories.  They’ve been in the drug trade and prostitution business for a while, and I wouldn’t put it past them to include human slavery. But the rest?” She shook her head. “Old wives’ tales.” 

 

“So, this Stick character John’s after …” Phil let the sentence hang unfinished, tossing the idea out just like old times. 

 

“Could be real,” she replied. “But I’m sure there’s also something in this for him. Got a contact in D.C. who tells me Garrett’s got IA watching him. Something about a junior agent and sexual harassment.” 

 

That sounded like John -- always with an angle. And the harassment? Yeah, that was him as well. The idea of political correctness was lost on him.  If Phil was honest with himself, he had been glad when John had transferred; he wasn’t blind to the man’s faults. 

 

“Good thing I put a tracker in the car, then.” He finished off his coffee and waved the waitress away when she offered a refill. “AT least I’ll know where he goes while he’s in town.” 

 

“You free for dinner?  I finish up at the gym around seven. There’s a good thai place near my apartment. Wouldn’t mind the company.” She threw Phil an opening and he took it for what it was. 

 

“I should be about to do 8 or so, depending upon how the rest of today goes.”  Nice thing about dealing with Melinda; she understood the crazy schedule Phil worked. “Give me your number and I’ll text you.” 

 

As they left the diner, Phil thought about heading back to the office, but Steve and Phil were probably still out and there were a few strings he wanted to pull without John breathing down his neck.  He hadn’t worked all these years without knowing some names and making a few connections of his own.  Turning left, he headed for a main street to catch a cab to the garment district. 

 

* * *

 

The slip of paper burned a hole in Clint’s pocket the whole time they canvassed the wharf; he had to fight to keep from dipping in fingers in to check if it was still there as he and Steve wandered the area, taking pictures and talking about potential business sites. Steve, with his earnest good guy personae, made a perfect mark to Clint’s con man game.  Today they went with the ex-athlete with more money than brains who wanted to help inner city kids; Clint donned his Carl Barnett guise, a slick accountant with connections, out to help himself to some of Steve’s funds. They never mentioned the Hand, just took note of the reactions they got as they checked out various buildings. Some people winked at Clint and made outrageous promises, others sincerely offered to talk about possibilities, and still more slammed doors in their faces.  But it was the run-down fish market warehouse that rang all of Clint’s bells; sullen guards far too professional for the job, multiple entrances and exits, and a site foreman who shooed them away in Chinese, waving an arm covered in prison tattoos. 

 

Steve called in the location and set up an electronic surveillance order; a car on the street would be far too obvious.  He had a date with Sharon, an art opening he promised not to miss;  Maria took charge once they were back in the office, filling them in on Garrett’s solo act and Phil’s lack of information. As much as Clint wanted to stick around until Phil returned, he took Steve’s offer of a ride home. 

 

Thankfully, Tony was locked in his lab; he’d been working on something for three days straight and Clint had no reason to bother him. So as soon as Clint was in his apartment, he smoothed the crinkled yellow rectangle and looked at the printed numbers. Part of him couldn’t believe that his brother would contact him; this had to be a trap of some kind, a fishing expedition to see if he’d bite. But the other half knew Barney too well; only the two of them knew this specific code. If Barney’d given it up, he was in desperate straits. He’d have thought he was prepared for any curve ball life threw, but having the brother who’d betrayed him and sent him to prison show up in a noodle shop knocked him for a loop. 

 

A light footfall brought his head up; standing on the patio dressed in all black, Matt Murdock tapped on the window.  He tugged off his ski mask and tossed it on the table as he came in. 

 

“Living with Tony Stark? You’ve come up in the world,” he said as he did a slow survey of the space, head tilted.  

 

“You still in that warehouse loft?  The one with the neon sign outside the bedroom?” Clint took two glasses out of the cabinet and a bottle of Dry River Pinot Gris from the fridge. Quick work with the corkscrew and he poured them each a glass. 

 

“Great roof access and no sightlines from other tenants. It suits me.”  Pulling out a chair, Matt sat down. “Does Stark know he’s got a con man upstairs?” 

 

“Not only knows, but is happy about it. He trots me out when he wants to piss off his keepers.” Clint passed over Matt’s glass then took out some Brie, grapes and a block of Gloucester.  Adding some sesame cracker, he joined Matt at the table. “I should introduce you. He’d love to know the best second story man in the U. S.”

 

“Actually, we’ve met twice now.  The Maria Stark Foundation runs after school art programs as well as a women’s shelter on W 45th. Foggy and I have done some pro bono work for them,” Matt said. 

 

“A do-gooder thief who’s blind.” It was an old joke between them. “Robin Hood of Hell’s Kitchen.” 

 

“And now you’re catching bad guys with the Feds; we’ve come full circle.” Matt sipped at his wine. 

 

“Are you going to tell me how you know this Stick fellow?” Clint finally asked after the silence spun out for a minute. “Or did you drop by to test Stark’s security?”

 

“I multitask,” he replied. “They teach that in law school.” 

 

Clint snorted around the bite of cracker and cheese he’d popped in his mouth. “Still a smartass, I see.” 

 

“I learned from the best.” Matt sighed. “And, yeah, I know Stick. He’s the man who taught me how to fight. Not a nice guy by any means, but he’d never be involved in selling kids.”

 

“He part of The Chaste?” Clint asked. 

 

Matt hesitated then nodded. “The Chaste are people who have cause to hate the Hand.” 

That was enough of an explanation; revenge drove many to violent ends. “Why would the FBI be after him then?”

 

“Not the right question, considering Stick tried to get them interested in information he had on the Hand’s connections in the city. I think the word he used was useless when they refused to listen to him.” Matt shook his head. “You should be asking what Garrett’s motive is and …”

 

“Who he’s working for.” Clint had suspected since Matt’s earlier warning. “He’s on someone’s payroll. That makes sense.” 

 

“I’m off to find out. A little cat told me he’s enjoying a nice dinner and show at Stark’s new club, so his room at the Marriott is empty,” Matt said. “I’ll let you know what I find.” 

 

Clint’s phone buzzed; he checked the text. “Nat’s on her way up.” 

 

“And that’s my clue to leave,” Matt pushed back his chair. 

 

“You should just talk to her, you know.” Clint got up as Matt did. “She doesn’t bite, and, besides, I thought you were into that kind of thing.” 

 

“Ha, ha. Trust me, she doesn’t want to see me. She made that very clear.” He paused. “I’ll visit to Stick, try and convince him to talk to you. No promises.” 

 

“Tell him Phil Coulson’s in charge and he’s a straight-up guy. I’d trust him with my life,” Clint told his friend. 

 

“Oh, really?” Matt grinned. “Now that’s an interesting fact.”  A sharp rap sounded on Clint’s door. “Gotta run.” 

 

Matt was over the edge and gone before Clint unbolted the lock. In one glance, Natasha took in the two glasses and plate on the table as well as the open panel to the patio. 

 

“Coward ran, didn’t he?” She went straight for the wine rack, opening a bottle of 1990 Montrose and poured a generous amount. “He never called, you know. Just left me hanging. Literally. From the third story window.”

 

“If I remember, you told him to go and then got mad when he did.” Clint reminded her, picking up his own glass and adding more Pinot Gris. 

 

“We were in the middle of a job; he should have known I was just blowing steam.” She carried the bottle to the end table then dropped onto the couch. “Doesn’t matter because we have bigger things to talk about like if you’re going to call your brother or not.”

  
  


He’d told her in a fit of self-pity earlier, called her on one of his secured burner phones. Of everyone, she was the only person who’d understand; she knew how deep his and Barney’s relationship went and just how much his brother’s betrayal had hurt. 

 

“Could be a trap.” He cut off some cheddar and stuck the bite in his mouth. 

 

“Could be,” she agreed. 

 

“Could be he wants to run a con on Stark,” he said. 

 

“Could be.”

 

“Could be he wants to beg my forgiveness.” 

 

“Could be.” 

 

He sighed and slumped in a chair, rolling the paper between his fingers. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll regret it if I don’t call. You’re right.” 

 

She tipped her glass in a salute and waited as he got out another burner and dialed the number.  The message started only three rings into the call. 

 

“Hey, this is Allen Scofield. I’m not home right now, but leave your name and number at the beep.” 

 

Barney’s familiar twang filled his ear followed by a loud tone. “Um, yeah, hello? I think you might have found my dog? My name is Marc Carson; give me a call when you can.” He rattled off the phone number then hung up, his hand slightly shaking. 

 

“Well, that’s done,” Natasha said. “Now, tell me about this ex-partner of The Suit who has you seething with jealousy.” 

 

“I’m not jealous,” Clint insisted. “Garrett’s a dick.” 

 

Natasha raised her eyebrows and peered over the rim of her glass. 

 

“Fine. A little. But only because he’s trying to use Phil,’ Clint said.

 

“Good thing The Suit’s smart enough to figure that out.” 

 

“True.” Clint smiled. “Phil’s going to kick his ass.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt Murdock isn't any specific White Collar character; I made him a Robin Hood type of thief to fit in his martial arts. :)))


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys find out why Stick is so important and begin to see just how far the rabbit hole goes. A shadowy organization raises its heads.

“Oh good, you’re here.” Tony strode across the small space; he put his tablet on the table and tapped the screen. Numbers and words projected in the air. “I need a fresh set of eyes … oh, hey, Red, you can look too. You’re good at patterns.” 

 

People were interesting creatures; let them talk and they’d tell their secrets without a thought.  Clint had long used that fact to his benefit.  Once started, Tony especially kept no secrets. Pouring a glass of the Pinot Gris, he put it within reach and Tony swiped it without dropping his eyes from the boxes of information. 

 

“Is this Stark Industries holdings?” Natasha unfolded her legs and sauntered over. 

 

“And all the subsidiaries. We keep buying interest in so many companies that it’s hard to keep track.” He spread his fingers and a spreadsheet opened. “Look at this.” 

 

Investments in Johtun Industries. Money paid to Emma Frost for paintings. Double books from the strip club. Outlays for resources, expensive cigars and wines. Warehouse rentals. Business trips. Tony scrolled through it all so fast that Clint had to grab some windows and leave them open.  

 

“Wait.” Natasha pointed. “That one. Make it bigger.” 

 

An inventory of art appeared, a long list of dates, prices, and sellers. Clint scanned them as Natasha highlighted a few. He added two more until there were seven.  

 

“Okay, I give. What’s important about those?” Tony tilted his head and studied the list. “A vase, two statues, three paintings, and a mosaic?” 

 

“Clint?” Natasha let him do the honors. 

 

“These three are from the National Museum of Kabul and the rest are from Palmyra. Stolen by the Taliban and ISIS, or at least they disappeared after the buildings were looted,” Clint explained. “Look at the dates on the purchases.” 

 

“Damn.” Tony’s face hardened. “Obie’s still dealing with terrorists. Motherfucker.” 

 

“It’s more than that.” Natasha looked grim. “It goes both ways Tony. See these outlays? Stane’s not just selling, he’s buying.” 

 

Tony sank down into a chair, speechless as Natasha lined up the evidence. There were gaps, enough that Phil couldn’t make a legal case, but the pattern was clear.  Stane was up to far more than selling weapons; he was running a massive, multi-fingered illegal empire. 

 

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Tony swiped it all away. “I’m going to …”

 

“Don’t go off half-cocked, Stark,” Natasha warned. “You charge at a man like Stane and he’ll take you out. You’ve got to be smart about this.” 

 

“It’s my company, don’t forget.  I can have him removed from the Board tomorrow.” Tony drank a long swig. “That’ll put a wrench in his gears.” 

 

“He’s already got everyone thinking you can’t handle the day-to-day job of running S.I.,” Clint explained. “You’re a great hacker, Tony, but a job like that calls for research and organization. Planning.” 

 

“You’re right, and I’ve got the best grifter and thief right here.” Tony grabbed the bottle and poured more wine. “How do we take Stane down?”

* * *

 

“Long night?” Phil asked, glancing up as Clint came into his office. “That’s your second cup of the office brew.” 

 

“Got caught up in an old movie marathon,” Clint replied “AMC ran a Humphrey Bogart retrospective.   _ Maltese Falcon, Treasure of the Sierra Madre _ .  I came in halfway through  _ The African Queen _ .” 

 

“Old movies?” As far as lies went, that wasn’t one of Clint’s best, but Phil let it go. Trusting Clint was getting easier. “Interesting excuse. I was out late having dinner with an old friend.” 

 

“Garrett kept you up past your bedtime?” Clint took his favorite seat, fedora rolling between his fingers. “Lots of catching up to do, I imagine.” 

 

“Actually, Garrett dumped me for a night at Tony’s new club.  Strickly main stage female burlesque for him,” Phil said, noticing how Clint’s shoulders dropped and his lips turned up at the corners. “Turns out one of my academy buddies, Melinda May, is working for a non-profit in Hell’s Kitchen, teaching martial arts to at-risk kids.”

 

“Let me guess, Garrett knew and surprised you?” Clint swung his feet up on the edge of Phil’s desk and settled in. “Look, Phil, I got an earful about your old partner yesterday. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news ...” 

 

“Don’t worry. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.  He always had his own agenda,” Phil admitted. “And I apologize for the way he treated you yesterday.  I guess I was so surprised to see him that I didn’t stand up for you.  You are a valuable part of this team, Clint.”

 

Clint threw him a cheeky grin. “Why, Phil. Flattery will get you anything you want.”

Heat rose in Phil’s cheeks at the blatant suggestion; he still had dreams about Clint’s stage performance, the play of muscles across his abs and the way those blue-grey eyes burned into his. He’d convinced himself it was all in his head; they were doing good work together and that was the most important thing. 

 

“I’d like a good cup of coffee and a little respect.” He lightly pushed Clint’s feet off, smiling as he did. “Now let’s get this show started; Steve’s in the conference room with his report ready.” 

 

“Is Garrett joining us?” Clint asked, following Phil down the short hall. “I’d love to know what he thought of Janette’s new number.  Woman’s got a gift, I’m telling you.” 

 

“The one with the silk rope?” Maria asked as she brushed past. “She makes Houdini look like an amateur.” 

 

“I’ve watched her tie the knots; they’re real,” Clint told her, taking his usual seat. “She’s just that flexible.” 

 

“Did you know she’s a fiber artist? Sharon’s talking to her about a show.” Steve turned on the screen. “Her tapestries are quite remarkable.”

 

“Pepper’s already convinced Tony to buy one,” Clint replied. 

 

“Now that we’ve settled that, can we start the briefing?” Phil interrupted. “Garrett’s going to be here by ten. I’d like us all on the same page before then.” 

 

“Of course,” Steve said, dropping into his professional voice. “I’ve been tracing the ownership of the warehouse, and it’s a tangle of holding companies.  Still waiting to hear back from the F.E.C., but the Wharf Commission did say the place had been recently sold.  Activity started about six months ago.” 

 

“That jives with what the gang task force told me,” Maria interjected. “The Hand had been a scary story told to keep gang members in line until it showed up on the streets. And for the record, they’ve never heard of this Stick character, not even the D.C. based guys.” 

 

“That’s because they turned him away when he went to the Bureau with information.”  Clint dropped into the conversation. “He wasn’t a reliable source.” 

 

“Where did you hear that?” Phil asked.  

 

“My lawyer friend.  He called me later; can’t say I blame him for not trusting the feds. Sorry, Steve.” Clint shifted in his seat, slid his hand along his legs and let his fingers come to rest over his left pocket. He was being unusually fidgety this morning, and the tight cut of his charcoal grey trousers didn’t hide the bulge of a phone he had tucked away. 

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Steve shrugged. “I read the file on Nelson and Murdock; they’ve butted heads with the establishment and the police a number of times. There are bad eggs in every basket.” 

 

“Any chance you could ask your friend …” Phil began. 

 

“Already done. He’s going to try and get word to Stick that we’ll listen,” Clint finished for him. 

 

“Let me guess? He doesn’t trust Garrett?” Maria wrinkled her nose. “That makes it unanimous.”

 

“You know, I’m not blind,” he huffed. Why did they all think he couldn’t see what John was like? “Why do you think we’re having this meeting before he gets here?” 

 

Clint’s phone played an old Phil Collins song; he took it from his jacket pocket and checked. “That’s Matt. He’s got something.” Thumb swiping the screen, Clint answered. “Hey, man. I’d say you’re up early, but you’re one of those disgusting morning persons.” He paused to listen. “Yeah. We can do that.” He glanced up at Phil. “I’ll have someone with me.” Another pause. “Non-negotiable. Coulson’s trustworthy, I promise.”  He winked at Phil. “I can’t deal; Coulson can. If it’s as urgent as he says .. yeah, I thought so. Where? Got it.”  

 

“Sounds like you have a meet. Get out of here before Garrett shows up,” Maria said, pushing back her chair. “Steve and I will handle him.” 

 

“You hate John,” Phil said, only half-protesting.  He’d much rather chase down leads with Clint that listen to John’s grumbling and passive-aggressive compliments. 

 

“I’ve interrogated murderers, Phil. I’ll deal.” She grimaced. “But you better bring me back something sweet. I’m having a craving for icing.” 

 

“A craving?” Clint wiggled his eyebrows as he settled his hat on his head. “Something you want to share with the class?” 

 

“I’ll share my fist with your face if you don’t get moving,” she told him. 

 

“Notice she didn’t deny it,” Clint sotto whispered to Phil as they headed down the stairs. 

 

“I doubt she’s pregnant,” Phil replied. Clint only grinned wider. “She’s not seeing anyone.”

 

“Oh, Phil, you’re so cute.” Clint held the door open to the elevator lobby. “She’s practically living at Bruce’s place.” 

 

“Bruce?” How did Phil miss that? “As in Banner?”

 

“Mr. Forensics himself. I have it on good authority they’re getting pretty serious,” Clint said, hanging back against the elevator wall and letting Phil push the garage level. “I’ve seen apartments circled in the classified section of the Times.” 

 

He thought about it for the rest of the short ride; Maria had been more content lately, more settled. She’d even cut down on needling Clint.  Phil had chalked it up to Maria getting used to Barton, but maybe it was Banner instead. 

 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Phil said as the doors opened and they headed for Phil’s sedan.

 

“Water cooler gossip?” Clint blinked innocently. 

 

“Distracting me from that phone in your pocket.” Phil slid behind the wheel, waiting for Clint to get in. “You know you can trust me …” 

 

Clint sighed and Phil could see that hint of vulnerability in the blue-grey depths. Maybe he was fooling himself, but he was beginning to see through Clint’s mask. For a split second, he wondered what it would be like, to have an unfiltered gaze turned his way. 

 

“I do.”  Clint nodded once. “But you know how Nat is about the government and secrets. Hell, even I don’t know where she’s at on any given day much less her phone number.” 

 

“That’s got to be a pain in the ass,” Phil agreed. “Living off the grid.” 

 

“It’s not as bad as you might think. What with free wifi and piggyback signals, you can stay connected. There’s always a day or two leeway before the system catches up,” Clint said. “We need to go to the courthouse; Matt will take us from there.”

 

Phil turned out of the garage. “Murdock and Nelson. Weren’t they the ones who took Fisk to court over that tenement building?” 

 

“That’s them. Want to help others, save the world,” Clint answered. “Could have been a partner by now in a big law firm, but Matt’s working pro bono in Hell’s Kitchen instead.” 

 

“Some people are like that.” Phil eased out from behind a taxi and picked up speed. “You, for instance, con people who can afford to lose money. Never pensioners or retirees.”

 

“Don’t make me a saint.” Clint said in a quiet voice. “I’ve done bad things, Phil.” 

 

“Haven’t we all?” Phil turned a corner. Silence fell between them until they neared their destination.

 

“Park in the garage, level three. Matt will meet us there,” was all Clint said..  

 

The lawyer was waiting for them when they got out of the car. Phil had time to introduce himself then Murdock took them to the subway; they got off twice to switch lines, walked three blocks then doubled back. Almost thirty minutes later, they arrived at a tiny apartment in Hell’s kitchen. Tapping with his knuckles, Matt opened the door. Inside they found a tall, thin man, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, wrinkled skin around his eyes, and a simple black shirt and pants hanging on his sparse frame. He began speaking in what sounded like Chinese; Phil knew a smattering of words in Mandarin but didn’t need to understand to know Stick wasn’t happy. 

 

Stepping forward, Clint answered, the language falling off his tongue with ease.  Matt added something then Stick turned to Phil. 

 

“I am told to trust you, but I do not.” A heavy accent laced the words. “And yet I find I have no choice if I am to make a difference.”  He lapsed into Chinese again, a rapid series of orders that sent Matt over to the refrigerator. Taking out a half-full carton of fried rice, Matt pulled out a plastic baggie hidden in the bottom; inside was a memory stick. 

 

“The data’s all there,” Clint said, translating as Stick continued talking. “Manifests, accounting files, pictures … enough to show a pattern of the … what’s that word? … Matt?” 

 

“Sea serpent?” Matt handed the drive to Phil. “Speak English, Stick. It’s only polite. Sorry, he can be a grumpy old man when he wants to.” 

 

“Be careful who you call old, Matthew.” Stick raised an eyebrow and shot Matt a look.  “Not a serpent, a hydra. Monster of many heads.  The Hand is only one of them.” 

 

“Hydra.  One of Hercules’ great labors; every time he cut off a head, two grew back in its place,” Clint said.  “Are you saying the Hand is part of a bigger organization?” 

 

“They do not know that Hydra has seeded their own in the Hand. And Wilson Fisk’s organization, the Korean gangs, World Tree, the police and the FBI. Hydra works quietly from inside out.”  Stick turned his stare upon Clint.  “But you already know of the stirrings at Stark Industry, do you not?” 

 

Phil exchanged a glance with Clint. “What’s Hydra’s goal? To control the world?” 

 

“They desire power in order to bring the world down. Chaos, that’s their end, Agent Coulson. When none are in control, control belongs to no one.”  Stick waved them away with a hand. “The files explain better than I can. Take it and go. I do not like the city; I’m a child of the countryside and am ready to return there.”

 

With a shrug, Matt opened the door for them. “No use trying to get him to talk more. Stick’s as stubborn as they come.” 

 

“And you are not?” Stick shot back. “A blind boy learning martial arts?” 

 

“He’s got you there,” Clint told his friend. “I can only imagine what you were like at ten.” 

 

“He was a precocious child who never did what he was told.  Like you, he has never grown out of it,” Stick said. “But it serves him well from time-to-time, as it will you, Clint Barton.  You will need all your wit and perseverance soon.  Even the sightless can see the trouble that stalks you. Be wary of who you trust; which side they are on means little.” 

 

“What does that mean?” Clint paused.

 

“Hell if I know; I read it on a fortune cookie.” Stick turned his back and walked into the bedroom shutting the door behind him. 

 

“What the fuck?” Clint asked Matt.

 

“Stick’s got his own way of looking at the world. Still, wouldn’t hurt to be careful; The Hand will kill to get that info,” Matt replied. “If Stick is right, it will crack open their whole operation.”

 

Phil hoped that was true; Stick’s warning had resonated in harmony with Phil’s own worries. They’d poked a few beehives and Clint had annoyed far too many powerful people on his own; it wouldn’t hurt to be extra cautious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hydra, Hydra, Hydra. hehehehehehehehehehehehehehehe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fight or Flight ... That's what Clint's trying to decide. To face the enemy or do what he's always done. 
> 
> But his life is different now.

Clint settled on a bench not far from the statue of Alexander Holley in Washington Square. Even at seven in the evening, people were wading in the fountain, a violin trio played a lively reel, and a magician held court, a circle of spectators laughing and clapping as he pulled a rabbit out of his hat. Restaurants were open for business, outdoor seating filled; Greenwich Village was alive with activity.

 

Unwrapping his falafel gyro from Mamoun’s, he took a big bite, chewing slowing as he watched the flow of New Yorkers through the park. He’d long ago trained himself to still his body, be aware but calm. Natasha had dragged him to yoga and then got him into meditation until waiting became second nature, a refuge from anxiety and doubt. Time moved in jumps and pauses, five minutes an hour and an hour less than a breath. And yet he saw everything clearly, assessed dangers, made plans, and knew when his brother entered from the north, circled the fountain and sat down, reaching into the brown bag on the bench for his own falafel sandwich.

 

A smattering of grey hair mixed in with the blonde at his temples; new wrinkles veed out from the corner of his eyes. Behind the black rimmed hipster glasses, his blue eyes were just as sharp but shadowed by a worrisome vigilance. He fit in perfectly with his Abercrombie khakis and Hilfiger sweater, very professional and pulled together, but then Barney always had been a chameleon.

 

“Surprised you came,” Barney said after he’d swallowed his first bite. “Considering what I did.”

 

“Figured I could at least give you the chance to tell me why,” Clint said, looking at his brother’s profile.  “You usually have a reason for what you do.”

 

“And you usually tell me how stupid it is,” Barney agreed. “I didn’t have much of a choice; jail was the only way I could think of to keep you safe.”

 

Heaving a sigh, Clint only had one question left unanswered after that statement. “Who?”

 

“They call themselves Hydra, like the Greek mythical serpent. I had no clue what I was getting into; it was just a simple job then another easy one and the money was good …” It was Barney’s turn to sigh. “When I realized how deep the rabbit hole went, I knew they’d want you when they found out who I really was.”

 

“So you engineered a reason why I’d hate you and turned me in.”  Clint shook his head; it was Barney logic -- protect Clint at any cost.  “The stash? What … you moved it somewhere safe. And you’ve spent the last years building a foolproof escape clause.”

 

“And now’s the time to take it.” Barney stopped a soccer ball with his foot and kicked it back to the kids playing just across the way. “Someone’s put big money on three targets. Wet work’s not my thing, but this is high priority so everyone’s on it.”

 

“Me? Someone’s put a hit out on me?” Clint’s mind flipped through possibilities quickly. A jolt of fear ran through him. What if … “The others?”

 

“Natasha. I assume you know how to get a message to her; she’s never very far away. That insurance guy, the one she’s got a thing for, Barnes.” Barney told him.

 

“Got to be Stane’s doing.” Clint crumpled up the aluminum foil his sandwich had come in and tucked it in the bag. “If you’re on the inside, you know names, locations … we can start tracking down …”

 

“Clint,” his brother interrupted. “I burned that identity by coming here to warn you. There’s no going back. I’m leaving tomorrow, starting over and I want you to go with me. You don’t know these people; they’re evil, and I don’t use that word lightly.”

 

“Leave New York.” The thought bothered Clint more than he’d care to admit. Not that he didn’t have three complete plans and two more back up ones in case he had to run. That was just being careful. “I’m only out on temporary release; if I get caught …”

 

“You damn well know we won’t.”  Barney raised an eyebrow and looked right at Clint. “This is about that Fed, isn’t it? Are you and he ..”

 

“No.” Clint cut off Barney’s question. “It’s not like that.”

 

“I don’t know. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” Barney wiggled his eyebrows. “I did a little snooping earlier today; wanted to check out the Suit. He’s got more than detecting on his mind.”

 

“Phil’s a straight-up guy; he takes his responsibilities seriously.  He’s my handler and that’s all it is,” Clint said.  When Barney’s reply was a wide grin, Clint tried again. “He’s too good for me, anyway. I’ve already put him in too much danger; no way am I going to risk a relationship.”

 

“Relationship, huh?” Barney wasn’t buying it.  “Right. If it was just a one time thing, you’d have already done it. No, you want the full blown flowers and chocolates, morning sex relationship.”

 

“You haven’t changed,” Clint grumbled, ignoring his brother’s jabs because, as usual, Barney knew him better than he knew himself.  “Look, I need to warn the others, get as much information as I can. I know I’ve always run when things got too hot, but I can’t leave them in a lurch.  What’s your plan?”

 

“I’m thinking Chicago,” Barney said around his late bite.  “Late afternoon.”

 

Chicago wasn’t a destination, it was a signal phrase, one of a series they’d worked out over the years. “Meet me at four at Stark’s place.  Come through St. Vincent Ferrier High School and cut over two blocks. There’s a back gate.”

 

“Tell Nat we’re even.”  Barney rose to his feet and tossed the garbage in a nearby bin. “Think Eastern European. And watch your back.”

 

Clint nodded. “Will do.”

 

As he strolled away, he called Natasha; she answered on the third ring and he said, “Budapest. Forty five minutes” then hung up.  

 

So many thoughts whirled through his head, but he kept his senses heightened in case he was being followed.  As he started his circuitous route, he lined up the facts and tried to see the possibilities.  That Stane wanted him dead wasn’t a surprise; since the first FBI case, he and Phil had been thorns in the man’s side. Tony had been on Stane’s hit list before Clint entered the picture, but moving into Tony’s house accelerated things. But Natasha and James? Sure, they’d both help thwart Stane’s plans, but why them and not Phil?   If anything, Phil was the biggest threat, the man with the power of the government behind him.  Phil had arrested Emma Frost, had brought down Johtun Industries, and captured Amora.  The fact that both Emma and Amora had gotten away thanks to someone’s intervention …

 

He pushed open the door to the hole-in-a-wall bar exactly forty two minutes later, sauntering over to the small table by the jukebox where Natasha was nursing a glass of whiskey, a second one waiting for him.  

 

“Thought you’d need this.” She pushed it over. “Spill.”

 

He told her everything from the beginning; she let him finish without interruption then went back and asked her questions.  As usual, she saw things he didn’t, raised good points to ponder, but she never second guessed him.  

 

“You have Barnes’ personal number?” he asked. “I could go through the company …”

 

“I’ll take care of James,” she assured him 

 

He nodded absently, glad to have one thing off his plate. “Have you looked at the files yet?”

 

“I’d say I told you so, and I did.  Talk about a vast conspiracy of the haves.  Super wealthy white men running roughshod over the little guy.  I’ve just scratched the surface and it’s every nightmare come true.  Major corporations using groups like The Hand as enforcers. Tech firms faking safety results Electric Utilities poisoning the water and not giving a damn. There’s enough there to keep us busy for a lifetime, taking down one smug bastard at a time.”   She tapped her finger on the edge of her glass. “That’s not a bad idea. Me and you, taking on the giants.”

 

“David against Goliath? That’s not your style, Nat.”

 

“Hey, I can evolve.” She shrugged. “Might need a few other hands, but put together a team and we run big cons. Getting rich in the process would be a bonus.  You planning on going with Barney? Reinventing yourself?”

 

Clint sighed. There it was again, that strange feeling in his gut; he’d broken his own rules and he knew it. “I haven’t decided yet.”

 

She put her hand over his. “If you run, the contract will follow you wherever you go.I’ve no doubt you can keep ahead of it, but do you want to?”

 

“The rules are there for a reason; you of all people should know that.”  Clint took a long drink, ice rattling in his glass. “I’ve already broken enough of them to make this difficult.”

 

“Well, I’m going to make it even harder. We can start over or …” Natasha squeezed his fingers, “... or we steal SI for Tony.”

 

“Steal …” He paused and thought about it. “If Stane’s the one who put out the contract, we take him out of the picture. Convince everyone we know nothing about Hydra …”

 

“Secret organizations want to stay secret. First truth of conspiracies. We give them an easy out; Stane went rogue and we took him down,” Natasha said. “They keep an eye on us, but we’re used to that. Tony goes back to being the wastrel rich boy, I steal a few more pieces of art, and you solve cases with Coulson.”

 

He wanted it so much that he almost agreed right then and there, but there was Barney to think of and the implications of growing even deeper roots. The next time, the decision would be harder … and there was always a next time. That Clint believed without a doubt.

 

“Think about it.” Natasha pushed back her chair and stood. “I’d say sleep on it, but I know you’re going to lay awake and worry. Go to work in the morning. Help your brother set up a new identity. Don’t let your guilt about him make the decision for you. I’m not completely convinced Barney’s excuse is true; we both know he looks out for number one first and foremost.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. Barney’s explanation was a little too pat to be the full story. “A glass or two of wine might help.”

 

“Don’t drink the Chateau Rayas without me. It’s next on my list,” she told him.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”   

* * *

 

Phil stood in his kitchen, refrigerator door open, staring at the bare shelves.  One take out carton, a tub of margarine, a six pack of Michelob, a few cans of Diet Coke, and some orange juice barely covered any of the gaping space.  Grape jelly was in the door along with two eggs he couldn’t remember buying anytime in the last six months.  His freezer was equally empty, offering only one lone freezer burned chicken breast and two ice packs.  

 

Disgusted with himself with letting things get this bad, Phil shut the door and perused the take out menus trapped by magnets on the stainless steel.  He really needed to eat healthier, so maybe something from Mulberry & Vine. But right next to it was a magnet for Rubirosa and a large pizza would feed him for at least three days.

 

The knock didn’t completely surprise him; he’d been halfway hoping Clint might show up with a brown bag and a bottle of wine.  Since they’d extended the range on his tracker to include Phil’s townhouse, there’d been many nights he’d shown up, food in hand.  Phil wouldn’t mind hearing Clint’s take on the glut of documents on the jump drive; talking had been impossible with Garrett hovering over his shoulder, needling Clint and Maria at every turn. When Clint had left right on time, Phil couldn’t blame him.  

 

“I hope you brought food …” Phil paused as he opened the door and found Garrett standing on his stoop.

 

“Let me guess. There’s nothing but moldy Chinese in your fridge.” John grinned. “I brought Rubirosa and beer.”

 

“Anchovies?” The pizza smelled wonderful. “I know you love those slimy things.”

 

“One with and one without.” John paused. “You gonna let me in?”

 

“I could just take the pizza and shut the door,” Phil said as he stepped aside, closing the door behind Garrett. “But you’ve got beer, so …”

 

He took the boxes and walked back the hallway to the kitchen, setting them on the small island and digging through a cabinet for paper plates.  The smell of garlic and oregano filled the air and his stomach rumbled.

 

“Eat up.’ John popped open one of the lids and scooted the box Phil’s way. “I brought that new science fiction movie everyone says I should see; thought you could explain it to me as we watch.”

 

The pizza was hot, almost burning the roof of his mouth with gooey mozzarella.  Phil took the bottle of beer and drank a swig before he spoke.  “What’s all this? A peace offering for being a jackass?”

 

Garrett loaded three pieces of the other pie on his plate and headed into the living room.  “Can we just watch a flick and eat like old times? No talk of work or cases or anything else?”  There was something plaintive in Garrett’s voice, the bravado gone. He came back for the six pack and transferred it to the coffee table. “You remember what this place looked like when you bought it? I thought you were batshit crazy for taking on a remodel in this part of town. Now there’s a coffee shop and a bakery, all yuppified cafes and even a vegan place I saw on the walk from the station.”

 

“Two years,” Phil told him as took the DVD and popped it in the player. “I lived here during construction without running water and, occasionally, electricity. Took showers in the F.B.I. headquarters gym.”

 

“Well, it’s damn fine now. Two stories, right?”  John kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the table; Phil glared and John removed them. “Man could use a recliner; you always did have a more refined style.”

 

“I like nice things,” Phil replied, an old refrain. “And it’s three floors now. I turned the attic space into a master bedroom complete with an attached bath.  Resale value almost doubled.”

 

“And here I am in a crappy efficiency in Arlington.  Walls are so thin I can hear my neighbor snoring at night.”  John bit into his first slice. “Gah, I missed really good pizza.”

 

Phil queued up _The Force Awakens_.  “Did you eat at the club last night? The food’s quality.”

 

“Had a steak and potato, but the floor show was to die for.”  John didn’t even blink at Phil’s knowledge of his comings and goings. “Stark’s onto something; that classy joint will make serious money. I hear you’ve been to the upstairs room a few times; see any guys you like?”

 

“Still as subtle as a bull in a china shop.  Yes, I’m still gay, and no, I’m not sleeping with Clint. I learned not to keep my private life private.”  In his early days at the bureau, Phil had kept his sexuality quiet, so quiet in fact that John kept trying to set him up on blind dates.  When Phil tried to explain why he wasn’t interested, John misunderstood and a very awkward few months followed before they got things straight.

 

“Jesus, Phil, I just meant are you seeing anybody. I know you’re not doing anything with Barton; you’re too much a by-the-rules guy to sleep with a C.I.”  John took a swig of beer. “You should find someone and settled down, though. So the rest of us can live vicariously through you. Be all domestic and happy and adopt a dog from the pound.”

 

“Or you could.” Phil knew that wasn’t going to happen; John was too much of a ladies’ man. “You ready to start the movie? I have a job to go to in the morning.”

 

“Don’t bullshit me; I know you’ll stay up all night for a Star Trek marathon.” John grabbed a second piece of pizza. “Are you going to do a synopsis of how this fits with the other films first?”

 

“Nah,” Phil said, pushing the DVD button, and settling in. “You won’t remember it anyway.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all been leading to this one moment. 
> 
> Too damn bad the universe won't cut Clint Barton a break.

“How the hell did this happen again?” Phil asked to no one in particular, just venting the rage that was building to a crescendo. “Every time we get some hard evidence, it flies right out of here.  D.C. prerogative, my ass! They can’t come in and take the data!”

 

Everyone was just as upset as Phil.  Arriving at his usual time, dragging a little from his late night, Phil had discovered that every copy of the files Stick had given them, even the one he’d tucked into the working folder, had been confiscated by higher ups in the Bureau. Some bullshit about a joint task force between agencies and interagency protocol … Phil knew exactly what was what.  HYDRA inside the FBI was the answer. 

 

“Come on, Phil.”  Garrett lounged against the wall of the conference room; he’d been the one to break the news. “You know how they are. The big boys want to break the big case. It’s how the game is played.” 

 

“This isn’t about winning.” Phil paced back and forth. “This is about corruption at the highest levels.”

 

“Phil, you need to let this go.” Garrett’s voice grew quiet. “You’re a good man, a good agent. Keep solving white collar cases, become an Agent-in-Charge, and help little old ladies get their money back from con artists like Barton.” 

 

“What happened to you, John? Last night, all that talk about old times … did you get your bug planted in my house?” So much time and effort, so many people who’d be hurt, even killed, and it was all for nothing. 

 

“Jesus, you’re a hypocrite.” He pushed away from the wall and stalked towards Phil. “And just where is your boy this morning? He’s noticeably absent. Ever think he’s the reason the Bureau doesn’t trust you?  You’ve brought the wolf right in the hen house and you have the balls to question me?”

 

“I’d trust Clint with my life,” Phil told him, the words tumbling out without thought. “I don’t think I can turn my back on you.” 

 

“That’s rich, considering.” Stopping right in front of Phil, Garrett narrowed his eyes. “I meant what I said. Go find a nice guy, get married, live the perfect life. You deserve it.” 

 

“You know I’m not going to do that.” Phil paused and chuckled as the truth hit him. “You are a son-of-a-bitch, John Garrett. A right royal bastard.” 

 

“Yep.” John slapped him on the shoulder. “Boss has already thrown a new case my way; no rest for the wicked. I’d tell you to stay out of trouble ...”

 

Phil let him walk out of the office before he sighed and sank into a chair.  Head in his hands, he replayed the last few days, looking for any clues to what was really going on. He’d been played, used to find the information for someone else.  And yet John had nudged Phil right into the path of the investigation, knowing full well that Phil would sink his teeth into it and not let go. 

 

“Do a sweep of every room,” Phil told Maria when she came to check on him. “I’ll need to do my house too. And the.car. Hell, any space Garrett was in.” 

 

“Stark has a jammer that should take care of your main floor.  He gave one to Sharon for the gallery. That way you don’t have to worry in the future,” she replied.  “Oh, Barton called; he thought it best if he didn’t come in until Garrett left. Steve’s going to meet him at Murdock’s office for a debrief; they’ll break the news about the bugs.” 

 

The  gym, Phil realized. “Have Darcy keep trying to recover anything she can. I’ve got to make a quick visit to Garrett’s contact, warn her.” 

 

“Tell Mel I said hi.” Maria’s time at the academy had overlapped Phil and Melinda’s by two years. “And that I’ll call her about doing lunch sometime.” 

 

He hated leaving the office in such an uproar, but there was little any of them could do. Nick was shut up in his office, making call after call, cursing at every obstacle and non-committal answer he ran into. Darcy wouldn’t find anything; whoever they’d sent had been good. Maybe Tony could, but Nick would never let Stark have access to the F.B.I. database. Besides, talking to Melinda might help clear his mind; what he needed was an outside voice, someone who wasn’t in the middle of the craziness that had become his life lately. 

 

As soon as she saw him, she gave him a curt nod of her head, tossing the load of towels she’d picked up into the laundry bin.  “Luke!” she called to a large African-American man near the sparring ring. He ambled over, crossed muscular arms over his taut chest, and eyed Phil up and down. “I’m going to Kaufman’s to get more tape. Watch the place while I’m gone.” 

 

Luke’s gaze didn’t flicker; he watched until they were out the door.  “Professional fighter?” Phil asked as the exited the building. 

 

“Ex-cop. Good guy,” Melinda answered. “He’s patient with the kids and a role model.” 

 

“Look, Mel, I …” Phil started. 

 

“Garrett screwed you, bugged your office, probably showed up at your house and planted listening devices there as well.”  She checked the light then hurried across the street with seconds to spare before cars started flowing again. “You think he did the same to the gym. Won’t matter; at least three different factions hear everything I say. I’ve gotten used to being overheard.” 

 

Between a shoe shop and a barber was an empty lot; someone had cleaned out the debris, created planting beds and seeded the ground with flowers and bushes. A medium size ash tree was in the middle, the pebbled path splitting to circle it.  Melinda took a seat on one of the benches placed underneath the branches and Phil joined her. 

 

“Someone’s stirring the pot. Luke’s girlfriend is a private investigator; she ran across a professional hit man near St. Patrick’s, asking questions and scoping out the area.  Fisk’s people are buying up real estate, and the Hand are making a lot of noise with deliveries,” she said. “Then there’s your man Barton visiting Murdock and Nelson twice; I assume part of his parole is to stay away from fellow thieves, so chatting with the Daredevil would seem to violate that.”

 

“Matt Murdock is the Daredevil?” Phil didn’t see that one coming. A blind second story man? One of the best in the business. 

 

“Great cover, right? And before you ask, it’s not an act.  He really can’t see,” Melinda told him. 

 

“He was helping us; Clint went to him for information.”  Phil sighed. “You think they’re planning something together?”

 

“Murdock was trained by Stick; I doubt he would put his mentor in danger. Plus, he’s made no secret of his dislike for the Hand, so I imagine getting back at them is his motive.  No, I think the guy Clint met with last night is the one you have to worry about.” Melinda showed Phil a grainy picture on her phone.  “The guy was seen hanging around Hell’s Kitchen the last few days; I followed him and, lo and behold, Barton shows up, they talk, and then they go their separate ways. Whatever the subject was, Barton was thrown by it; he went straight to a bar where he met a certain red head you never managed to catch.”  Phil couldn’t see her face in Melinda’s picture, but he knew Natasha Romanova from the tilt of her head. “They spent the rest of the evening in the Stark Mansion.” 

 

Phil sat back and closed his eyes. A sharp spike of disappointment speared his chest; Clint, Murdock, Romanova … the other guy was too fuzzy to be distinguished. Phil would find a camera with a good angle as soon as he was back at the office. Could Clint be conning him? This whole time? There was so much to steal in  Tony’s house; they could take a couple paintings and be in the wind before anyone knew. 

 

He didn’t want to believe it. All these months together, working side-by-side; he was sure he’d come to see the real Clint beneath the grifter, that the friendship they’d developed was real. Maybe there was another explanation;  Clint went to Murdock for help, learned something from the mystery guy and called on Natasha to help. With Garrett lurking about, Clint would keep things close to his vest, wait for the right moment. That was just as likely, wasn’t it? 

 

“You didn’t quit the Bureau, did you?” he asked. 

 

“Donaldson had one of his hunches; he thought it best if I was independent of the system.  Man has eyes in the back of his head, I swear; it’s like he knew they were already on the inside and we’d need outside people.”  She nudged Phil’s knee. “Andrew knows; he’s working on a new book while I’m deep.” 

 

That was a bit of good news; the two of them had always been so happy together. “He was right; D.C. confiscated all of the data. It’ll disappear down the same rabbit hole as Amora, Frost, and the rest.” 

 

“Look, Phil, best I can say is go with your gut; I’ve never been very trusting anyway, but I’m even less so now.  If you think Barton’s about to run, go talk to him. Find out what’s going on. You caught him once; you can do it again.” 

 

“I caught him because his brother set him up,” Phil protested. 

 

“Maybe someone’s doing the same this time. He does have a habit of annoying people and making enemies, or so you said.” 

 

“Maria wants you to call her, do lunch,” Phil said as he stood. “You know, if you need me…”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Go get your man.” She waved him off with a smile.

 

* * *

 

“What was all that about back there?” Steve asked once they were in the car. “The whole thing about his partner.”

 

“Foggy?” Clint turned his face towards the wind and watched the passing street. “The two of them have been friends since law school, but they’ve had their moments. Last time I saw him, Foggy wasn’t speaking to Matt. Something about an ex-client.” 

 

“Funny, I thought he was talking about you and Phil.”  Steve grinned. “”Talk to each other, don’t take him for granted …” 

 

“Matt’s not the most subtle, is he?”  Clint chuckled; he had to laugh or he was going to jump out of the car. He wasn’t sure he could handle another shovel talk, not now.  “You want to add your two cents?”

 

“Nah. I figure Maria kicks your ass enough for both of us. Whatever’s up with you, just know that Sharon and I will do what we can to help. Phil took a chance on me, just like he did with you.”  

 

“Wow, you’re going for the jugular. I respect that,” Clint said. “Phil’s given me lots of rope; if I hang myself, it will be my fault, not his.” 

 

Steve was quiet for another block before he spoke again. “Got a call from Bucky early this morning; he’s on his way here.” 

 

“Coming for a visit?” Clint kept it light, used his best disinterested small talk voice. “Or on a case.” 

 

“You don’t go into battle with a guy and not know what he’s not saying.  You and Bucky are into some kind of trouble; at least he reached out.” Steve stopped at a red light. “You going back to the office?” 

 

“Drop me at Stark’s; best to keep my head low while Garrett’s around.” Clint had a long list of things to get done before four p.m. “I’ll let you and Maria deal with the fallout.” 

 

* * *

 

“Hey, A.C.! I’ve got it.” Skye bounded up the stairs, laptop in hand. “Camera on the corner of the Cold Stone Creamery had a good angle. Just had to blow it up a bit; not a full face but might be enough for an i.d.”

 

The grainy black and white image centered on a park bench; Clint sat on one end, another man on the other.  With glasses obscuring the man’s face, Phil had to watch for two minutes before he got a glimpse of the profile. 

 

“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath.

 

“Well, fuck.” Maria sighed. “I didn’t think Clint would ever want to see him again.” 

 

“Blood is thicker,” Phil replied. “Turning Clint in wouldn’t be the worst thing Barney ever did.” 

 

“His brother?” Skye leaned in closer. “That’s him? Why is he here?” 

 

Phil stared at the screen, marking every interaction and Clint’s reactions. “It’s not good. Look how tense Clint is, how fast he makes the call to Natasha.  Something’s wrong.”

 

“Why now?” Maria tossed out.  “Is he part of this?”

 

Running the tape back, Phil watched the meeting again.  He’d always believed that Barney had been trying to protect Clint from the men he’d gotten involved with.  If true,what could be important enough to make contact now? Only something  …

 

“Where’s Clint?”  Phil opened a drawer, shuffled through paperclips and pens, and pulled out a USB drive.  Inserting it in his computer, he opened a window and started files copying. “Get me a location on his anklet.”

 

“You think …” Maria began.

 

“He’ll believe it’s his only choice to keep everyone else safe. My money’s on Stane being behind the contract.” Phil grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on. “Check in with Interpol, see if we can track any known assassins on the move.  Get arrival logs and look for when Barney got in country.  We need a time frame.  Maria, pull some threads and see if anyone in Hell’s Kitchen knows what Barney was doing in the last day or so.”

 

Ejecting the USB, he tucked it in his pocket and headed for the door.

 

“Wait, wait,” Skye called as he headed down the stairs. “What’s going on? I missed something!”

 

“Barney warned Clint there’s a contract out on him,” Maria answered.  “Clint’s probably planning to go to ground or leave with..” 

 

The door cut off the rest of the conversation; Phil ducked into the departing elevator and pushed the garage level.  This might be a mistake, but he wasn’t going to let Clint go without talking to him one more time. His gut twisted at the thought of a tomorrow without Clint’s snark and ubiquitous hats. Maybe, just maybe, he could talk Clint out of running if he was honest with him.

* * *

 

Barney let out a long wolf whistle as the lights came on in the garage.  “Damn, boy.  I’d be driving a different one of these beauties every day.”  He ran a gentle hand over the fender of the Bugatti Veyron. “Hello, gorgeous. You are perfection.” 

 

“Shove your tongue back in your mouth.” Clint popped open the key box and looked for a specific set. “We use whatever Tony had already called down and had ready.”  

 

“Aw, come on. That’s a Ferrari over there and an Audi R8!”  Barney pouted. “At least let me drive the Audi.” 

 

“Here.” Clint tossed a set of keys to his brother. “It’s already pulled out.”  

 

Peering through the open door, Barney’s eyes widened as he saw the black and silver convertible sitting on the driveway.  “Aston Martin Vantage Speedster?  Tell me it’s a V8.” Hitching his one piece of luggage over his shoulder, he walked to the car. “Holy shit, baby bro. This is one class act; heading down the coast suddenly sounds really good. Beaches, bikinis, bellinis …” 

 

“You got the new passport and papers, right?” Clint asked, more worried about passing airport security than the car. “Your Russian accent is still decent, I hope.” 

 

“Clint.” 

 

He froze, the familiar voice sending a shiver up his spine. Barney’s eyes widened and he stepped outside the garage towards the car; Clint closed his eyes and counted to three before he opened them and turned. 

 

“Phil.” He couldn’t think of what to say next, his facile tongue failing him. 

 

“So …” Awkwardly shoving his hands in his pockets, Phil stood a good three paces away. “I just wanted to …” 

 

“I’m just … I’m mean I’m not …” Clint said at the same time, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants. 

 

They paused then both chuckled, breaking the tension. 

 

“I brought you this.” Phil pulled a USB out and held it out. “Thought you’d want to know what your brother’s been up to the last few years.” 

 

“Of course, you kept an eye on him.” Their fingers brushed as Clint it. “I’ve got something for you too.” Clint swapped out Phil’s drive for the one he’d tucked in his vest pocket. “It’s all there.” 

 

Phil turned it over; his eyes widened. “You made a copy of the files,” he said then laughed. “I should have known.” He tucked it away. 

 

“Old habits,” Clint said. “Look, Phil, I …”

 

“No.” Phil shook his head. “I practiced this speech the whole way here, so let me get through it before I lose my nerve.”  He took a deep breath. “Your brother came to warn you; I’m not clear on exactly who’s after you …” 

 

“Stane,” Clint supplied then fell silent as Phil. 

 

“Makes sense, but not the issue. I don’t blame you for leaving; it’s worked before and you have a hero complex, even if you deny it. You’d want to protect everyone.  But it’s not the answer this time.” Phil grew serious, his eyes catching Clint’s and holding his gaze. “You have people who can help you, resources. Disappearing only puts off the inevitable; we can take Stane down and put an end to it. Give me two days to show you.  I’ve got a lead on a hit man seen in the area and a good source on the street. We can do this. Together.” 

 

Clint sighed; that wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, but he knew how hard it was for Phil to ask. “Together. All of us? Steve, Maria, Tony …” 

 

“Yes.” Phil paused; his gaze slid away then came back, clearer blue irises than before. “But that’s not what I’m saying. I mean … you and me. We make a good team, Clint.”

 

TEnsion bled from Clint’s shoulders; he took one step forward. “Because I help you close cases? Raise your success rate?” 

 

“Because we fit, we … understand one another.” Phil took a step of his own. “I want … I want you to stay.” He raised a hand and slipped his fingers along Clint’s jaw until his palm cradled Clint’s cheek. “With me.” 

 

It was as easy as breathing to lean in that last bit of distance, to let his eyes drift close as Phil’s fingers clenched in his hair.  Part his lips and feel the first warmth of exhale, the tentative brush of softness, the firmer press as they made contact. Taste a hint of coffee, smell Phili’s woodsy scent, feel his heartbeat in his throat. Pull back, mngle breaths, see the truth in Phil’s eyes, let his mask drop. Then kiss Phil again, rest his hand on Phil’s chest, enjoy the way Phil’s lips slanted, went from hesitant to sure, demanded more. How good it felt. How right. One perfect moment. 

 

Clint broke the connection, leaned his forehead against Phil’s and told him. “I’m not leaving; I’m just helping Barney start over.” 

 

“What?” Phil’s head came up. “You …”

 

“Nat talked sense into me; we’re working on a plan to neuter Stane so he can’t hurt anyone,” Clint explained. “I tried to tell you.”

 

A smile broke out on Phil’s face.  “I drove over here to stop you like some sap in a romantic comedy and you weren’t even going?”

 

“I’m not complaining.” Clint caught Phil’s belt and tugged him in closer. “Not at all.”

 

This kiss was hot and greedy; now that Clint had a hint of how good Phil tasted, he wanted to be sure Phil got the message. 

 

“Excuse me.” Barney coughed a couple times. “As fascinating as it is to watch my baby bro get all flustered over a suit, there’s a timetable to maintain. Unless you want to let take the Aston Martin on my own.”

 

“No way in hell, but you can drive.” Clint reluctantly let go. “Get her started; I’m coming.” 

 

“Your man is not going to arrest me?” Barney asked, circling to the driver’s side of the car. “I’m a wanted felon after all.” 

 

“Go.” Phil nudged Clint away. “Take care of family.” 

 

“Told you,” Barney said over his shoulder at Clint. “Am I good or …”

 

The blast wave threw Clint off his feet, knocking him into Phil and tumbling them both to the floor. Clint had only seconds to register the singing heat of the fire and the sharp pain in his hip before his head hit the concrete and everything went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the White Collar fans out there, yeah, this is my take on the season one cliffhanger. Hold on ... more's coming!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, Clint tries to deal with both his loss and his blossoming relationship with Phil. Plans are being made, but our heroes hang in limbo as this episode ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of these six stories as episodes of a TV season. This is the episode where everything starts to go to hell. The next two are a two-parter of how they fix things. Keep an eye open for what happens next. There are some familiar faces and some steamy scenes coming up!

His head pounded like a congo drum played to a reggae beat; cracking his lids open, he squeezed them shut as bright light seared his eyes. 

 

“Oh, God, how much did I have to drink last night?” he mumbled. Shifting, he tried to lift up on his elbows, raise his head from the pillow, but a sharp pull and tight pain in his hip stopped him. 

 

“Take it easy,” a voice said. “You hit your head pretty damn hard.” 

 

Clint tried again to open his eyes; a dark blob turned into a familiar face, but Bucky Barnes was all he recognized. Bamboo wallpaper, slatted blinds, walnut headboard.  Pale blue Egyptian cotton sheets slipped along his bare skin.  

 

“Tell me we didn’t …” Clint flopped back down on his stomach and winced.  

 

“Hell, no.”  Barnes huffed and rolled his eyes. “You don’t have the right equipment for me. Besides, Nat would kill me; she basically made me sign away my first born before she let me into her safe house. Woman’s completely paranoid about her privacy.” 

 

A memory brushed his consciousness; a warm press of lips, sweet taste and long sigh. Bright blue eyes warmed by desire. Someone calling Clint’s name. 

 

“Phil.” Clint’s eyes flew open. “Is he…”

 

“Banged up a bit but better off than you.” Natasha settled on the edge of the bed. “You took the brunt of the damage.  Sixteen stitches and an ostrich egg of a lump behind your ear.” 

 

Heat. Lifting off the ground. Piercing pain. Concrete floor. Flames. 

 

Barney. 

 

“Fuck.” Clint groaned and closed his eyes. For all the times Barney had been a bastard, Clint couldn’t imagine a life without him around. “Fucking hell.” 

 

“I’m sorry, misha.” Natasha put a hand on Clint’s bicep. “I know you loved him even after everything.” 

 

“You never liked him,” Clint reminded her. A hole opened in his chest, dug deep by grief and guilt.

 

“Doesn’t matter. He was your brother,” she said. “ The Suit is taking care of the scene; got that dark haired forensic guy working on it. Stark’s handed over the security tape but the camera had a blind spot right where the car was.”

 

“Video? I turned off the feed to the garage.”   Clint had thought that far ahead at least. The less Tony knew, the better.

 

“It was an outdoor camera.” Natasha arched an eyebrow at him. “From the pained look on your face, it’s time for me to check your stitches and for you to take another dose of pain meds.” 

 

“Yes, ma’am.” There was no arguing with Natasha when she decided to be nurturing. Besides, he had no energy to fight, his mind numb and his body aching. Maybe if he went to sleep, he’d wake up and all this would be a dream. Well, all but kissing Phil. That he wanted to remember. 

* * *

 

Phil paused, one hand on the open shoji screen; in the room beyond, Clint lay asleep on his stomach, sheet twined around one leg. Golden skin -- how did Clint stay tan all the time? -- drew his gaze ... the play of muscles across broad shoulders, the curve of one cheek, a hollow just the right size for fingers to grip, a bent knee and foot dangling off the edge of the bed. Mottled bruises spread down one flank and across the small of his back; three white rectangular bandages were taped along one hip, blooming black and blue around them. 

 

“Hey.” Clint rolled onto his good side and sat up, wrapping the sheet around his lap; Phil got a glimpse of smooth inner thigh and dark blonde curls before they disappeared beneath the cotton. “Any news?” 

 

Tension bunched in Clint’s temples, wrinkling his forehead and clouding his brow. A sadness shadowed his blue-grey eyes, guilt pooling in the corners. Sleep softened his cheeks, invading fingers skewing his hair in different directions. Doubt settled in the downturn of his lips, worry riding along his jaw. 

 

Phil’s heart beat hard in his chest; this was the real Clint Barton, an unfiltered face filled with emotion. The scared little boy, the grieving brother, the hurting man. Between one breath and the next, Phil’s resolve melted like snow in the sun; he fell, lost to the overwhelming need to gather Clint up in his arms and hold him until the pain went away. 

 

“Not much,” he managed to say. He could focus his mind on the immediate problem, but couldn’t tear his gaze away as Clint used the end table to push himself up. “Bruce has found traces of accelerant and bomb residue, so he’s running more comprehensive tests to determine what was used. An identification is going to take longer considering …” 

 

The sheet slipped from Clint’s hands as he walked to the side screen and slid it open. Phil’s words trailed off, train of thought derailed by the view.  Unbothered by his nudity, Clint closed the screen halfway and turned on the faucet.  

 

“I’d like to see the report,” he said. “Barney had some dental work done that’s pretty unique.” 

 

“I’m sorry about your brother.” Phil truly was; Clint had enough tragedy for two lives. “Actually, if you’re up for it, I have a few questions.  The video feed didn’t yield a lot of information.”  

 

“Go ahead.” The water stopped then drawers opened and closed.

 

“Why the Aston Martin?” The detail bugged Phil; he’d been thinking about the little things to avoid the bigger issues. 

 

“Fuck,” Clint cursed. Something rattled the dropped to the floor. 

 

“You need some help?” Phil took a few steps into the room. 

 

“Nah.” Clint muttered something too quiet for Phil to hear. “I should have started with the other foot. Just give me a second.”  A few seconds passed and then Clint appeared, a pair of soft cotton pants hangin low on his hips.  “Tony told us to take a car; I picked the one already pulled out of the garage.” 

 

“That would be Tony’s mechanic who moved it?” Phil’s eyes were drawn to the curve of hip right above the waistband. 

 

“Mac? Yeah, no, he wouldn’t do it. Man’s been working for Tony for years since he retired from the racing circuit. He loves those cars; if he tried to take one of us out, it wouldn’t be in the garage.”  Clint ran a hand through his already messy hair. 

 

“So Mac picked the Aston at random?” It didn’t make sense; how did the bomber know Barney would be in that specific car? Maybe if Phil wasn’t cataloguing every bump on the dusky pink of Clint’s nipples, he could focus.

 

“Tony doesn’t have a system; he drives whatever he feels …” Clint stopped. “Tony had some meeting uptown and was going to drive that car.”

 

“The bomb was under the driver’s seat; security camera doesn’t show that part of the car. We have no idea when the device was planted” Phil sighed; everything had to be so damn complicated. “There’s still the contract out on you, so we don’t know who the target was.”

 

“Barney gave me the names of the guys who got the orders. Skye can run them through the databases,” Clint told him. 

 

“I'll get everyone right on it. Still, it’s best for you to lay low. Right now, only a few people know you survived the blast.” 

 

“So, I’m dead?”  Clint closed the distance between them. “Good. Then I can do this.” 

 

His hand wound around Phil’s tie and tugged, bringing them together; slanting his mouth, Clint swiped his tongue along the crack, leaving a minty taste that burned through all the objections he’d been compiling in his head. He gave in and slid his hands around Clint’s biceps, felt the muscles tense and skin warm beneath his palms.  They kissed for hours, they kissed for minutes. Phil breathed Clint in, he breathed himself out. If this was all they’d have, all life was going to give them, then it was enough. Warm lips, quiet room, a kiss that would fuel his dreams long into the future. It was more than he expected to ever have. 

 

“So.” Clint pulled back. “I hate to break the news but there’s no way I can pretend this didn’t happen.”

 

“Yeah, I agree. But …” Phil started to explain but Clint raised a hand and cut him off. 

 

“I know. You’re the one who got me out of prison and I’m your responsibility.” Clint smoothed Phil’s tie, his fingers skating over the silk. “There will be talk that I’m manipulating you …” 

 

“I don’t think …” Phil tried to interject. 

 

“I know you don’t, but others will believe it. And you’ll always wonder if you’re pressuring me, if I’m agreeing because you’re my handler,” Clint continued. “You’re a good man, Phil, and you’d never take advantage of me, but I don’t want even a whiff of doubt. We can keep going the way we are without the justifications and elaborate plans; we’re both capable of keeping our pants zipped. But … and make no mistake, it will happen … the second our status changes, all bets are off. I plan to have you someplace warm where clothing is optional for a whole week at least. 

 

Every time he thought he understood this man, Clint peeled back another layer. “There’s this island where each room is a small house right by the ocean with its own pool and hot tub. Saw it in a magazine at the dentist’s office.” 

 

“Angsana in the Maldives. We’ll get one of the villas out by ourselves.” Clint smiled and his eyes lightened. “Now, let’s go make a plan.  I can’t stay dead forever.” 

 

“You going to put on a shirt?” Phil asked. 

 

“Ah, so you did notice.I thought I was losing my touch.” Clint flexed his biceps and winked. “It would be out of character for me to stop flirting so …”

 

“You are going to be a handful, aren’t you?” 

 

“A handful … a mouthful … you have no idea,” Clint replied. 

 

Phil was in so much trouble. And he was looking forward to it. 

* * *

 

He read through the report from beginning to end twice in a row then went back a third time, carefully checking each and every detail. Three missing teeth, but the rest accounted for, each filing and crown noted. Laying the file on the table, Clint closed his eyes and sighed. 

 

“Are you okay?” Barnes asked, pausing punching the bag to look his way. 

 

“I’m good,” Clint assured him.  “I just need to be sure, you know? See it with my own eyes.” 

 

“Look, I’m sorry, man. About your brother. Another thing we can lay at Stane’s doorstep.” He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. 

 

“What about your job? You taking a leave of absence?” Clint changed the subject. 

 

“Been thinking about quitting for awhile now. I’m not an investigator, I’m the heavy they send to get beat up.” He landed a punch that made the bag rock. “It’s all about money for them, not people.” 

 

“I get that.” Clint tucked the file under his arm as he stood. “How much you want to be HYDRA’s got their finger in that too?” 

 

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Bucky replied, dropping his head and going back to boxing. 

 

Once he was in the bathroom, Clint used the burner phone that routed through four countries to send one text.

 

*Thelma’s singing* 

 

Then he took out the battery and SIM card, dropped the phone on the floor, stepped on it until he heard plastic crack, flushed the card, and threw away the battery. 

* * *

 

“That’s the craziest plan I’ve ever heard,” Tony said, grabbing the last egg roll with his chopsticks. “I like it. Let’s do it.” 

 

When he’d shown up at the door with Chinese food in hand, Clint had been shocked to discover Natasha not only shared the location of this place with Stark but also had him upgrade security for a number of her bolt holes. She swore that Stark was better at not being followed than Barney, but Clint worried all the same. There were still contracts out on them; the more people going in and out, the bigger chance of being found. 

 

“It’s complicated, that’s for sure.” Bucky polished off the last of the egg foo yung. “Too many moving parts that could go wrong.”

 

Clint looked around the table, taking a read of everyone’s faces, who was in and who had doubts. Tapping his fingers on his tablet, his brows furrowed in concentration, Phil studied the window he had open. “Phil? You comfortable with this?” 

 

“Surprised you’re in on this, Agent. The whole breaking the law thing, you know,” Tony said. “Me, sure. The Wonder Twins, of course. Even Brooding Barnes here makes sense. But you?” 

 

“Sometimes you’ve got to fight fire with fire,” Phil replied with a shrug. “Besides, no one’s stealing anything.” He paused and eyed Clint. “Right?” 

 

Drawing a cross over his heart, Clint said, “I promise that I’m not going to steal anything bigger than a keycard. Nat?” 

 

“I don’t plan on stealing anything from Stane,” she replied. 

 

Arching his eyebrow, Phil laid the tablet down and threw the display into the air. “Don’t think I don’t hear the wiggle room in both those statements.” He eyed Clint specifically. “I will not hesitate to pat you down if necessary.” 

 

“Promises, promises.” Clint chuckled, enjoying the fissure of warmth that ran through him. “But that’s for later; what’s on your mind?” 

 

“Just a few questions …” Phil started pointing out details, places where they could tighten up the time table, smooth the thru line, reduce the mark’s options.  He rearranged variables, knowledge of years of tracking criminals and handling cases giving him a different view, noticing things that Clint wouldn’t have picked up. 

 

When he finished, Natasha spoke first. “I think we’ve found our mastermind.” 

 

“I agree.” Clint nudged Phil with his knee. “Okay, Phil. You’re in charge.”

 

“You just want to call him Sir,” Tony said with a wink.  

 

“Maybe that’s why I’m here,” Phil shot back. 

 

“In that case,” Clint added. “Go on. Sir.”

 

Turned out, Clint could laugh despite having a price on his head. . 

  
  


**POST CREDIT SCENE**

  
  


“What do you mean they can’t find them?” Obediah Stane fumed, cigar between his fingers and a trail of smoke wreathed around his head. “I told you where they were!”

 

John Garrett  wanted to smash his fist into that smug face, but he tamped down on his anger and managed a civil reply. “They went to ground after the bomb in Stark’s car.  That tipped them off; why didn’t you tell me you had more than one contract out?” 

 

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Stane told him. “But that wasn’t me. There must be another player out there. If it’s not too challenging an assignment, I want you to find whoever it is.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Kiss my ass, you old bastard, was what he really wanted to say but he was in far too deep to risk showing his hand to Stane. No, John had other plans for this clusterfuck he’d ended up in; setting Phil on the path to taking Stane down was just one of them. He was going to end up on top, no matter what it took to get there. “We’ll keep searching for Barton and the others.” 

 

“Nah, don’t bother.” Stane dismissed him with a wave. “Call off your dogs. I know exactly how to smoke them out of hiding. Just got to make a quick phone call and I’ll kill four birds with one stone.”

 

The door shut behind Garrett, and he kept his face impassive until he was on the street, cell phone in hand.

 

“Change of plans,” he said. “Stane’s going to handle the marks. We’ve got other things to do.” 

 

“Brock and Jack won’t like that,” Grant Ward answered. “They’ve got itchy trigger fingers.” 

 

“Oh, I’ve got something real fun planned; they’re going to love it.” Garrett waved down a taxi. “Meet me at the bar in fifteen. I’ll fill you in.” 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thelma is a reference to Baby Thelma one of the most famous carnival acts ... she was a fat lady. *winks*


End file.
